Delaware Tom; or, The Traitor Guide

By Jos. E. Badger

This novel takes place in the pioneering days of the USA. A wagon train is moving slowly westwards. At the head are three persons: A young woman called Clara, riding her horse; a man of about 55 years; and another man, Richard Rouzee, aka Dusky Dick. This man is the guide, but his reputation is not the best as he is reputed to have lost two of the wagon trains he has guided.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Jan 17, 2022
• ISBN: 4066338106926

Book preview

Jos. E. Badger

Delaware Tom; or, The Traitor Guide

Published by Good Press, 2022

[e-mail]

EAN 4066338106926

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I. AN ALTERCATION.

CHAPTER II. THE STORM-CLOUD BREAKS.

CHAPTER III. A WILD RACE.

CHAPTER IV. THE FORLORN HOPE.

CHAPTER V. DELAWARE TOM.

CHAPTER VI. TOM MAXWELL TURNS INDIAN.

CHAPTER VII. A TANGLED TRAIL.

CHAPTER VIII. SAVAGE TACTICS.

CHAPTER IX. BOUND TO THE STAKE.

CHAPTER X. THE WINDING TRAIL.

CHAPTER XI. REUNITED.

CHAPTER XII. DOG EAT DOG.

CHAPTER I.

AN ALTERCATION.

Table of Contents

Mid-afternoon of an oppressively hot and sultry day, in the year ’54.

We call the reader’s attention to a scene, that, if not romantic, is at least attractive and interesting; a wagon-train of emigrants, as is attested by the quantity of driven stock—horses, cattle and sheep. The presence of women and children is still further evidence.

It moved slowly and drearily along over the vast, almost barren stretch of level plain, as though the nearly spent day had been one of hard and unremitting toil. The horses or mules, their heads hanging down, with drooping ears and tails, their hides damp with sweat and covered with the fine sand cast upon the air by the trampling hoofs, or the slowly revolving wheels, scarcely heed the stinging lash or the impatient exclamation of their drivers.

The loose stock move dejectedly along, cured of their morning propensity of running from the trail to snatch a mouthful of grass, or nip the tops of a bush, while more than one of the boys, whose duty it is to keep them within proper limits, dozes in their hard saddles.

But there are three persons who appear full of life and free from the general weariness of mind and body. There: one of them a woman—a girl; the others men.

The first, who rode at several hundred yards in advance, if closely scrutinized, proves to be an old man, who has numbered his half-century, or perhaps nearly a decade more. A close scrutiny, we say, for his figure was as erect and vigorous, his motions as free and supple, the fire of his keen gray eye as clear and penetrating as a generation since.

His hair and long flowing beard were gray, although the thickly clinging dust effectually disguised this. From his position, his arms, his actions, it was plain he acted as guide to the wagon-train.

The next figure, about half-way between this man and the foremost wagon, was also a man, and merits a brief description at our hands for more than one reason.

In stature he was about the mean hight, of a rather slight figure, but with a muscular and active development, clothed in a plain and well-worn suit of gray. His dusky, olive complexion, black hair and eyes like a sloe, had given him the sobriquet of Dusky Dick, a name that was already famous throughout the West.

Although not much, if any beyond his third decade, Richard Rouzee, or Dusky Dick, had followed the calling of a guide for a number of years, and gained the repute of being peculiarly unfortunate, having lost one-half the trains he had acted as pilot for, and rarely escaped without at least one fierce and desperate struggle.

More than one dark rumor had been put in circulation, and some more boldly declared that he was in league with the red-skins, and only acted as guide, the more surely to compass his purpose. But this was only conjecture, and could not be substantiated by any valid proof.

The third person, who rode at some little distance to the right, so as to escape the annoying dust, was a young woman of more than common grace and beauty, although the latter quality was somewhat obscured by the long, weary day’s travel.

Rather above the medium hight, of a superbly rounded and developed form, that was admirably displayed by her neatly-fitting riding-habit of black, she sat her horse with the ease and grace of an accomplished equestrienne, although he chafed and fretted at the restraint of a tightly-drawn rein, caracoling and prancing in proud strength and spirit.

It was a clear-cut profile and beautiful complexion that Dusky Dick beheld from the corner of his dark, sinister eye, that glared with a fire of unusual admiration. But this his slouched hat concealed, and his smooth, beardless face gave no outward sign of the dark and troubled thoughts that filled his brain.

Then he pricked his half-wild mustang viciously with his spur, and darted suddenly up beside the lady, who uttered a half-suppressed exclamation of annoyance, and made no attempt to conceal the expression of dislike and impatience that clouded her usually sunny features.

It has been a wearisome day, Miss Clara, began the guide, speaking in a low and remarkably musical voice although his eyes flashed as he noticed her evident aversion. But we are almost at the end of our day’s journey. See—that long dark line yonder, a little to the left, is our stopping-place, beside a clear and beautiful stream. I know the spot, well.

So we camp there? Well, I am glad of it, for more than one reason, replied the lady, in an impatient tone.

And may I ask why so?

Do you wish to know the truth? asked Clara, with a slight emphasis.

Certainly; the truth will be doubly pleasant, coming from such winsome lips, Dusky Dick returned, with a half-mocking bow and smile.

Well then, the main reason is that once there, you will have other things to attend to, and will not have so much leisure to annoy others by impertinent and unwelcome attentions, curtly replied Clara, urging her high-mettled horse ahead, as if desirous of escaping the company of the swarthy guide.

And another reason is—that a certain baby-face, Buenos Ayres by name, will not be long in feeding his horses, and then, of course, will hasten to pay his respects to the belle of the wagon-train, sneered Dusky Dick, keeping close to Clara, whether she rode fast or slow.

Mr. Rouzee, at length exclaimed Clara, her eyes flashing angrily, and her cheeks flushing, your place as guide is yonder, along with Tom Maxwell, and not out here. If I appear rude, you force me to be so.

A guide’s place depends greatly upon circumstances, Miss Calhoun; and just now I prefer this position.

Then occupy it alone; I will go back to the wagon, she added, reining in her horse.

Stay, Miss Clara, cried Rouzee, his black eyes glittering. "Keep your place, but mark me, the time will come—and soon too—when you will repent these haughty airs, and solicit as a favor, what you now affect to scorn. I tell you that the time is not far distant when you will crouch at my feet—when you will hang around me for a word—a smile; when you will call me master. Do you hear?"

And I tell you, sir, that when we camp to-night, you will have to answer to the charge of being drunk while upon duty, haughtily retorted Clara, her eyes flashing. Will you go, sir, or must I appeal to my father?

The guide did not reply, but plunging his long, cruel spurs into the flanks of his mustang, he dashed rapidly up alongside of the old borderer, Tom Maxwell, who received him with a cold, half-suspicious start. Evidently there was little love lost between the two men.

Just before sunset, the long line of trees was reached, that bordered upon a small stream, and preparations were immediately begun for encamping, while Dusky Dick and Tom Maxwell galloped off to hunt for sign.

The mules and horses were ungeared and turned loose, after being hoppled, and the wagons were formed into a rude sort of corral, one line covering the joints in the other. All was bustle and apparent confusion, although each person knew his duty and busied himself about that alone.

Fires were built, and over them stooped the women, preparing supper for the different messes; while the children brought wood and water, or else rolled and tumbled over each other with merry shouts, in their play, little recking what the morrow might bring forth.

To one of these fires, a little apart from the remainder, we now turn. Over it was bending the form of an old negro woman, whose wrinkled features and gorgeous red and orange head-gear, looked weird and wild through the flame-tinted smoke.

A little to one side of this sat three persons, or rather half reclining against the moss-covered roots of the gigantic oak tree, idly watching the motions of Aunt Medora, as she turned the hissing bacon, or the nicely browning hoe-cake. One of these was Clara Calhoun; the others were men.

The eldest one—tall, portly and of a soldierly bearing—was her father, the leader or captain of the wagon-train. Of perhaps fifty years in age, his muscular frame gave no evidence of decay, and the fire of youth still seemed to shine in his large dark eyes. The heavy, grizzled mustache and beard, gave a somewhat stern cast to his features, that were massive and regular, and his voice, used to command, enhanced this idea; but at heart he was kind and gentle.

The other was a young man, between his fifth and sixth lustrum, with a handsome, manly face and form; with a calm, steadfast look in his gray eye that instinctively commanded one’s respect, and told that he could be depended upon in any emergency, however dangerous or trying.

His garments were plain and almost poor, but there was an air of conscious independence and freedom in his